MVA
by Lady Kaima
Summary: In the midst of a difficult case, House's life gets more complicated in the wake of a motorcycle accident.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I am not a doctor and I don't play one on tv. All medical mistakes are of course mine, but sadly House isn't.

The diagnostics department was starting to look a little ragged. The blinds were askew, books were piled high atop the conference room table; coffee mugs and wrappers were strewn about everywhere. Nine days and eight nights had passed since their most recent patient had been admitted; 57 tests and 8 procedures had been ordered and completed—and they were still nowhere near a diagnosis. Cuddy had managed to keep her mouth shut through sheer force of will; House knew he was running out of time. She could see it in his eyes every time she'd passed his office. House didn't solve every case that came his way; but he did solve most of them. Every test was negative every time, yet the patient's abdominal pain persisted, his kidney function had begun to decline. His extremities were tingling. His vision was failing. No drugs, no risky sex. No affairs, no poisons, no toxins. No travel.

House's fellows were starting to look the worse for wear as well; with wrinkled clothes and weary faces. In the wee hours of the night one or two of them could be found in the on-call room, sprawled on the beds wearing scrubs. They'd at least split the hours monitoring the patient between the three of them; sparing House the need to check in on their patient. Or sparing the patient. House hadn't left the hospital since they'd taken the case. Wilson had brought him sandwiches and checked in on him every once in a while. He'd taken cat-naps in his Eames chair in between bouts of research. By midmorning of the ninth day, it was clear House hadn't gotten out of his chair. Cuddy speculated that it was entirely possible he wasn't able to get up. He hadn't showered, or changed since Tuesday. His deep blue eyes were bloodshot from the lack of sleep and his five o'clock shadow had become a full beard.

"Go home, House." Cuddy ordered tersely.

"I like it here." House said stubbornly. He had his laptop balanced on his stomach and was half-slouched down to stare at the screen. His leg was propped up on a pillow.

"You smell." Cuddy said in exasperation. House rolled his eyes and glared at her.

"What is it with you? I don't work, you complain. I work, you complain. Make up your mind, woman."

"Work reasonable hours and I won't complain." Cuddy said steadily. "You can't get up, can you?"

House looked up at her searchingly, and sighed. He set his laptop down and rubbed his eyes.

"Can you?" Cuddy persisted.

"No." he said in a low voice.

Cuddy nodded. "I want you to let Wilson take you home. You need to get off that leg. Eat something, and for God's sake, shower." House pursed his lips, started to shake his head when Cuddy sank down beside him and brushed against his leg. He stiffened, unable to entirely suppress his groan of pain at the unexpected movement. He glared at her, his hand moving to his thigh and rubbing, briskly. Cuddy took the laptop from him and held it.

"Wilson said he'd be done in about 15 minutes. Be ready to go." She told him gently. After another moment, he ducked his head and nodded once. Cuddy got to her feet and looked at him sternly. She strode to the door and let herself out without looking back.

* * *

Wilson had been true to his word; he'd finished up his last appointment before lunch and swung through House's office with a wheelchair. House had sunk down into the wheelchair in silent relief, but he'd refused to let Wilson put the foot rests up. He'd been silent all the way out to Wilson's car. An hour later, Wilson had returned and joined Cuddy in the clinic to peruse his charts.

"He fell asleep on the way home. I swung through and got him some Thai. Got him into the house and he ate, showered and crashed."

"Willingly?" Cuddy asked in disbelief.

"I wouldn't say willingly. More like he didn't have a choice once he stopped fighting it." Wilson shook his head, and held up a prescription carbon. "He should sleep for the rest of the day."

"What'd you give him?"

"Fentanyl patch. 25 mcg. I figured it should take the edge off enough to let him sleep."

"Good thinking." Cuddy smiled. "How'd you get it on him?"

"Helped him get dressed after he got out of the shower. Slipped it up high on his arm under the sleeve. It took about five minutes to kick in, and he fell asleep in six." Wilson shook his head. "I left him a note to call me when he gets up. I'll bring him back when he's ready."

"Good idea. He probably shouldn't be driving." Cuddy squeezed Wilson's arm in gratitude, before returning to her office.

The afternoon had worn on, and Cuddy had been relieved that House hadn't returned. Nor had he called, according to his fellows. Wilson admitted he hadn't heard anything. He hadn't accessed any of the test results that had been dropped into the chart electronically, either. Hopefully he was asleep, or at least resting. Cuddy smiled to herself. He had to be sleeping; House wouldn't be able to stay off the case if he was conscious. Their patient was critical, but stable for the moment. He showed no further signs of deteriorating. She'd ordered House's team to take a break as well. Go home, have dinner someplace, take a walk. Get out of the hospital for a few hours. They'd left reluctantly, moving through the lobby and meeting her gaze in acknowledgment. Satisfied, she'd trudged back to her own office, and began to tackle the pile of paperwork on her desk. Three hours later, Foreman put his head in the door.

"Can I talk to you?" he asked.

"Of course." She set the latest proposal for the new cardiology wing aside and waited for Foreman to seat himself.

"Wilson told me I had to get your approval before calling House. The patient's liver enzymes are through the roof. He's heading for liver failure." Foreman said patiently.

"Okay." Cuddy said simply. "I'll put him on the transplant list."

"And House?" Foreman prompted.

"Page him. Wilson offered to pick him up."

Foreman nodded, and got to his feet, unclipping his pager. Cuddy watched him leave, and stared at her desktop for a long moment, thinking of House and his patient before resuming her paperwork. Another hour had passed before she knew it, making it almost ten p.m. She sighed, stretching as she got to her feet. Smiling, she gathered up her charts and slid the paperwork back inside. Satisfied, she turned off the desk lamp and started to put her charts in the outbox.

"Dr Cuddy!" one of the ER nurses knocked frantically on the door to her office before bolting inside. Cuddy paused, feeling her heart sink. Judging by her panicked expression, whatever the nurse had to say would undoubtedly ruin her plans for the evening.

"Yes?" she asked calmly as she finished stacking the last of her completed charts in the outbox.

"Dr House was just brought in. MVA."


	2. Chapter 2

Cuddy stood silently, absorbing the news. "How badly is he injured?" she asked crisply, moving swiftly toward the ER. The nurse kept pace with her and hit the automatic doors at every turn.

"He's conscious. Looks like a fracture in his left leg, possibly in his right ankle as well. Cuts, scrapes, bruises. Possible concussion. He's –asking to see you." She rattled off calmly. Cuddy smiled despite herself; House wasn't asking for her. The attending in ER was asking. She reviewed the schedule in her mind and realized quickly that Cameron had requested the night off. It was too bad; Cameron was the one doctor House would have allowed to treat him down there. Rounding the corner into the ER, Cuddy could hear House protesting. Loudly. She paused for a moment in the doorway out of his line of sight and smiled in relief. Stepping out into the overcrowded ER, she could see House sitting up in his bed; glaring balefully at a nervous intern. He looked surprisingly good, considering he'd been in an accident. Someone had taken his helmet and bike jacket off, more than likely at his request. He was still in a t-shirt, which she could see through the gown that had been draped over him. His left leg was in a pressure splint, his jeans and shoes had been removed and his socks had been cut off. His right ankle was very, very swollen. Cuddy swallowed a lump in her throat; House was going to be wheelchair bound until his left leg healed. At least 6-8 weeks. And possibly for physical therapy. Damn.

"…if you think I'm going to let you try to stick me again, you're an idiot."

"House." She said sternly, although Cuddy felt anything but stern with him. "I don't want you harassing my staff."

"This is constructive criticism."

"Obviously." Cuddy moved closer to the bed and held her hand out for the IV kit. The shaken intern gave it to her and gratefully backed off. She gripped House's hand firmly and rolled it over, exposing his veins. She inserted the needle expertly and finished setting up the IV.

"What happened?" she asked quietly as she hung his first bag of fluids and pulled her penlight out of her pocket. He reacted evenly to light, though he flinched away from her touch. Good. Whatever had happened to cause the accident, it hadn't been because of the vicodin. Or the fentanyl. And the concussion was slight.

"Was on my way here. Stopped at the light on Chestnut. Got clipped by a car at the signal." He sighed shakily when she prodded his leg, pursing her lips in concentration. At least it was a closed fracture. She turned her attention to his right ankle

"Why were you on your way here?"

"Patient crashed." He sighed then, lifted a hand to his face wearily. "Got paged."

She nodded in relief. He was oriented. "You been to xray yet?" she asked.

"No."

"We'll need films. I think we can re-set it and cast it without need for surgery, but I'll wait until we see the films."

House sighed loudly, but nodded in acquiescence. "I'll talk to Foreman." She told him quietly, patting his arm as he lay back. "Do you want to stay on the case?"

He thought for a moment, before nodding reluctantly. "Give me a little while. If I don't need surgery. Or morphine." He gave her a steady look. "I don't work when I'm high."

"I know." She said softly. "Want me to call Wilson?"

He bit his lip, and then nodded again. "Might as well. He'll just bitch if he finds out I was admitted and no one told him."

Cuddy nodded, and made a few notes in House's chart before moving to the ER admit desk and ordering an xray and an MRI for him.

While orderlies took House to radiology, Cuddy moved back into her office and sank down behind her desk for a moment, basking in the silence before she picked up her phone and dialed Wilson's cell.

"'lo?" he mumbled incoherently, and Cuddy sighed as she checked her watch. It was just after ten thirty p.m.

"Wilson, it's Cuddy. I'm sorry, I know it's late. House—House was in an accident." She sighed as she heard his sheets rustle, and then the sound of Wilson scrambling out of bed. "He's conscious. Left leg's broken, possibly his right ankle. Some cuts and scrapes, nothing serious."

"How'd he get in an accident?" Wilson demanded breathlessly. "It was that damn motorcycle, wasn't it? Was it the fentanyl?"

"He was on his way in. He got a page, and was stopped at a signal when someone clipped him. And no, he's not high from the pain meds. Pupils are equal, round and reactive."

Wilson was silent for a moment, save for the sounds of him dressing and the jangle of keys. "I'll be there shortly." He told her quietly. Then he hung up.

Sighing, Cuddy sank back in her seat bonelessly. She rubbed her temples wearily, and sighed again when her pager beeped. She pulled it out of her pocket, unsurprised when she found House's xrays were available for her to review. Pushing herself to her feet, she moved wearily to the door and crossed the clinic soundlessly back into the ER. Someone had pushed House into one of the bays and drawn the curtains for him; she drew them aside and flipped the lightboard on. Pulling the films, she put them on the board and studied them critically.

"House?" she called. He'd reclined in the bed and flung an arm over his eyes to block the light. She couldn't tell if he was sleeping or not.

"Hmmm?" he murmured, and Cuddy shook her head. Only House could sleep with broken bones.

"Got your xrays. We can reduce them manually."

House removed his arm and blinked at her. The blue of his eyes were lost in the depths of his pupil, and Cuddy felt her heart nearly stop. He'd been fine when she'd done a neuro exam less than half an hour earlier. She rushed to his side and whipped out her penlight. Startled by the sudden movement, House batted at her hands. "What the hell?" he demanded tiredly. "You checked me earlier."

"Your—" she started to say, but sighed when House glared at her.

"They gave me Compazine. All that moving was making me toss my cookies." House rubbed his eyes and looked at her steadily. After a moment she nodded, and dropped the penlight back in her pocket. "What's it look like?" he asked finally.

"Simple fracture, both of them. We'll set them, and get you casted. I want to admit you, at least overnight. You'll be able to rest while you're working on your patient." He held out a hand for the films, and held them up to the light. After a moment, he nodded and gave them back. "I haven't had a chance to talk to Foreman yet." She explained as she slid the films back into their envelope and pressed the call button. As if on cue, House's pager buzzed on the table and he sighed loudly. "I'll talk to him." He said quietly. Nodding, Cuddy picked up his cell phone and handed it to him. Squinting a little, he scrolled through the phone's memory and dialed the diagnostics lounge.

Cuddy left him to explain the situation to his team and quietly conferred with Rogers, the ER attending. She arranged for House to be admitted following the setting and casting of his leg and ankle. Returning to House, she found him in consultation with Foreman. Rogers entered silently behind her, and she nodded. Pulling the blanket back, and the splint off, Cuddy supported his knee while Rogers gently placed his hands on both ends of the fracture. She nodded, watching House squeeze his eyes closed, the phone supported between his shoulder and chin. Rogers snapped the bone back into place while Cuddy kept his leg steady.

"Jesus!" House sputtered, gasping. Rogers motioned one of the ortho techs into the bay and she began prepping House's leg for casting. Cuddy relinquished her grip when a supportive pillow was put beneath House's knee. He was lying with his eyes closed still, breathing shallowly. Cuddy plucked the phone from his grasp and spoke into it gently. "Foreman?"

"Yeah, we're here. Is he ok? What happened?"

Cuddy sighed. "He got your page and was on his way in when he got clipped by a car. Broke his left leg and his right 're setting them now. Give him an hour or so to get situated. Did he give you enough to get started?"

"Damn." Foreman sounded apologetic. "Yeah, we'll start with tests. Is he coming up then?"

"I'm admitting him. Room 307."

Foreman was silent for a moment. "Is he going to be able to work on the case?"

"As long as he can handle it." Cuddy said quietly. "He'll stay as long as he needs to."

House grimaced at that, but made no comment. Cuddy held the phone out to him, but House had shaken his head. She'd hung up then, trusting Foreman would follow House's instructions and begin the tests he'd ordered. The tech was quick and efficient-she plastered House's cast quickly and aside from asking what color he wanted, made no other remarks to him. Cuddy had smiled briefly when House had chosen a bright red overwrap. It matched his shirt, he'd said faintly. They'd set his ankle in the same way. House had braced himself, gripping the bed railing so hard that his knuckles had been white. They'd had to lift his right leg off the mattress slightly before shifting the bones back into place. House gave a little scream at the jerk on his leg and went completely limp as he passed out. Cuddy sighed as she gently gave the weight of House's leg into Rogers' hands, and rounded the bed to check the pulses in his right foot. Anything with his right leg gave her fits; already missing the majority of the muscle his leg was more prone to break than it had been before. The nerves in his leg had been stripped of the insulation the muscle had provided and the slightest injury could damage those that remained. Luckily, the pulses were intact, and Cuddy finally gave the technician permission to wrap the break with an Ace bandage. The last thing he needed was the hard shell of a cast impairing circulation down to his foot.

* * *

Wilson hadn't been running when he entered the ER, but he'd been walking very, very quickly. A few people glared at him as presented himself—wearing his hospital ID—to the admission desk and circumvented the standard ER admission desk by darting into the bay. Moving to the first nurse he could find, he asked for Dr Cuddy—and for House's chart. She frowned as she told him he couldn't have the chart, but waved him down to the bed on the end. Thanking her, Wilson rubbed a hand along the back of his neck and moved down to the end. As he neared the bed Cuddy pushed the curtain back. She started then, her blue eyes widening in shock.

"How is he?" Wilson asked impatiently.

"Sleeping." Cuddy said quietly. "Both were reduced manually. He passed out after we set the last break." Two orderlies appeared, and Cuddy nodded at them as they moved to House's bed and pulled it away from the wall.

"No other injuries?" Wilson asked as he watched the orderlies wheel House out of the ER and toward the elevator.

"Some cuts and scrapes and bruises. Nothing serious. No concussion."

"Why is he still out?" Wilson asked in a low voice.

"Because he's been up for four days and got hit by a car?" Cuddy asked him sharply. Wilson rubbed his forehead irritably. "I'm admitting him." Cuddy went on. "He's agreed to continue on his case if we do that for him."

"I'm—okay." Wilson shook himself mentally, it wasn't worth a fight with Cuddy if House had agreed for once to do something in his own best interest. "Where?"

"Third floor. 307." Cuddy took House's chart from the nurse at the ER desk and held it out to Wilson, along with a packet of films from his fractures. He blinked in confusion. "I'm assuming you'll want to look at them."

Wilson sighed, but took the chart and films. Cuddy moved toward the elevator and he followed tiredly. Flipping the chart open, he checked House's labs and then read through Rogers' admission notes. House's left leg had a closed fracture, manually reduced and casted for approximately six to eight weeks. His right ankle had also sustained a closed fracture and was manually reduced, soft casted for about the same time. Assorted cuts, scrapes and bruises, none serious. Concussion had been ruled out. House was lucky. If you counted the fact that he was going to be wheelchair bound for the next eight to twelve weeks. And during his PT.

Damn. PT.

Wilson followed Cuddy out of the elevator on the third floor and down to House's room. The orderlies had awakened him for the transfer, and Wilson winced in sympathy at House's pained grunt when he hit the mattress. House closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing while the orderlies finished reconnecting him and left without another word. Cuddy hovered at House's bedside while Wilson sank down in a chair next to his bed.

"House?" Cuddy wrapped her fingers around his wrist. "Can you give me a pain rating?" His pulse hammered beneath her fingertips. Lifting her gaze to the heart monitor, she found his heartrate was up to 160. House grunted in pain again, and Cuddy sighed as she released his wrist and left, presumably to acquire some sort of pain relief. She returned moments later with a syringe and injected it into the IV port. A few minutes passed, and House's breathing slowed perceptibly. Wilson watched House's eyes flutter closed, his heart rate slowed on the screen. He dropped off to sleep quickly.

"What'd you give him?" Wilson asked quietly as Cuddy threw the syringe out and noted the medication in his chart.

"Morphine."

"He won't be able to work the case." Wilson noted.

"He'll sleep it off in a couple hours. If he can't even speak to give me a rating…" Cuddy's voice trailed off. "We'll get him back on his own meds when he wakes up." Both fell silent for a moment, and jumped simultaneously when Foreman knocked on the door behind them.

"Hey." Foreman stepped in silently, and House's new fellows followed him inside. Noting that his boss was asleep, Foreman nodded in his direction. "He ok?"

"He's sleeping. He'll be awake in a few hours." Cuddy said simply. Lifting her chin, she gestured to the chart in Foreman's hand. "You finish the tests?"

"Inconclusive." Cuddy took the chart, and motioned House's team out into the hall. Wilson remained, pulling out House's films and holding them up to the light. Sliding them back in the folder, Wilson lay the films down on the table and put House's chart there as well. Putting his head in his hands, Wilson surveyed the linoleum tiles beneath his feet dispassionately. Rising to his feet, Wilson put a hand gently on House's arm, squeezed it tightly before releasing it and shuffled toward the door. He killed the lights, and slid the glass door closed quietly. House would sleep for a couple hours, at least. He left a note at the nurses' desk to page him when House attempted a break-out, and made his way to his office.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: It's just House always says...if you take a person off the street and run a body scan you'll find five things wrong with them. And just like it is on the show, you have to do the tests to make sure everything is all right. Happily, while solving my own medical mystery I did not have a cardiac arrest, nor did I have anything truly wrong with me. Sometimes normal really is normal. :D And even though my own doctors were very professional, I couldn't help superimposing the gruff, acerbic nature of a misanthropic jerk over their lab coated nice-ness...

To Hani-Ha Wafflenut, dmarchl, and the numerous other people who emailed me and asked me to continue--thanks! You gave me something to keep busy with.

His pager woke him out of a dead sleep at 4:45. Squinting in the darkness, Wilson could make out DDX/House on the glowing screen and he sat up with a grunt. He scrubbed his face and yawned, deeply. Running his fingers through his hair, he grimaced at the greasy feeling. Getting to his feet, he donned his lab coat to hide the worst of the wrinkles before shuffling wearily down to the elevator. Stepping out on the third floor, he moved first to the coffee maker and got himself a cup before moving into House's room. House's fellows were spread around the room on chairs or leaning against the wall; all looked as tired as he felt. House was awake, but barely, Wilson decided. His eyes were half-lidded and though he was sitting up, he was leaning heavily on the pillows piled behind him.

"Everything ok?" he asked, sipping his coffee.

"We're working on a new DDX." Foreman supplied. He was sitting closest to House, looking rumpled and tired. "If it's not Wegner's, what else can it be?" he asked. House rubbed his eyes tiredly, let his hand fall back to the bed.

"It's never lupus." He pointed out dryly. Glancing over to Wilson, he indicated the cup and stared at it enviously. "You didn't think to bring one for everyone?"

"Thought you all would have gotten your own." Wilson leaned back against the wall carefully.

"Hello, cripple here. And they don't feed the inmates before seven." House was pouting, and Wilson rolled his eyes. "All right, I want you to do a venogram. Find out what we can see before the damned Wegner's punches a hole in something we can't fix." House ran a hand over his face again and sighed, heavily. Foreman rose from his chair and the fellows pushed away from the wall. Once they had filed out of the room, Wilson sank down in Foreman's chair.

"You want coffee?" he asked quietly. House shook his head after a moment, looking worn and tired. He didn't say anything as he pushed the button to lower the bed. As he slowly reclined, Wilson set his coffee aside and helped House lie back on the pillows. He slid one under House's right knee wordlessly, and was secretly proud that he'd guessed House's right leg was bothering him. House leaned back and closed his eyes once more. Wilson switched off the overhead light, and then sank down beside him and sipped at his coffee.

Within minutes, House was asleep; his slow, steady breathing was lulling, and Wilson felt himself nodding off despite the jolt of caffeine from the coffee. He longed to ask House about the accident, but resisted, setting his cup on the bedside table and leaning back in his chair. Hugging himself to stay warm, Wilson drifted off not long after.

He woke next to the door sliding open, and Foreman put his head in. "House?" he called quietly. On the bed, House stirred but didn't wake, and Wilson sat up.

"Sorry, Dr Wilson." Foreman apologized.

"What time is it?" Wilson asked tiredly.

"Just past eight. Is he ok?"

Wilson sighed, deeply. "I think he's just tired." Gesturing to the chart in his hands, Wilson asked, "What's up?"

"Venogram showed no sign of Wegner's. We did an MRI. There is a weird shadow near the gallbladder."

Casting a glance at House, Wilson held a hand out for the films, and then retracted it. "Give him half an hour. Let him get cleaned up and eat some breakfast." And some pain meds, he added silently. Eyeing Foreman, Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. "Take a break yourself. You've all been working for what, four days now?" Foreman looked ready to protest, but pressed his lips together and said nothing. He nodded and left quietly. Wilson got to his feet stiffly, and pressed the call button. The nurse who entered looked entirely too chipper—she was beaming when he asked her for a vitals check, and Wilson silently prayed House would sleep through her ministrations. She disappeared to get a thermometer, but returned with it and set about ascertaining House's status. Temp was normal, pulse and heartrate holding steady, BP was steady at 110/70. Oxygenation was good. She moved to leave, but Wilson shook his head and held out his hand for the BP cuff. The nurse gave him a confused look, but handed it to him obediently. He wrapped it around House's right calf. It wasn't ideal, to check his leg's blood pressure so high up, but with the wrap on his ankle it wasn't possible to go any lower. The pressure was low, due to the positioning on his calf but was still decent for House. Unwrapping the cuff, he held it out for her to take and carefully began to check the pulses in House's right foot. Despite his caution, House jerked and then groaned when Wilson's fingers tickled the bottom of his foot. Surprisingly, he didn't wake.

"Sorry." Wilson told him quietly. His pulses were good, and Wilson hurried to finish before he woke. "Note in his chart that his BP and pulses were fair to good in his right leg." The nurse nodded, writing intently. "And bring his am meds up with his breakfast."

"Of course, Dr. Wilson." She said sweetly. Scooping up House's chart, she took it back down to the nurse's station and began requesting a tray. The staccato of heels on linoleum reached his ears, and Wilson looked up to find Cuddy sliding the glass door back.

"How is he?" she asked quietly.

"Everything looks good. His leg's fine, BP's low, but the pulses are strong. I requested his breakfast tray and meds."

"He awake yet?"

"Yes." House mumbled tiredly. Blinking, he lay still for a moment before fumbling for the button to raise the bed. As he slowly sat up, he cautiously pulled himself back onto the pillows.

"How do you feel?" Wilson asked. House shrugged, but couldn't contain a wince when he shifted his right leg.

"Like I was in an accident." He said shortly. Cuddy rolled her eyes, and Wilson sighed, deeply.

"House…" Wilson's voice trailed off, and House looked up at him through narrowed eyes for a moment before relenting.

"My whole body hurts. Both of my legs are immobile, and I won't even be able to use crutches until my left leg heals. I'll be in a damn wheelchair for the next three months. My bike was totaled, and I have no idea what's going on with my patient. I'm super." Wilson was spared the need for a response when the nurse returned with House's breakfast tray and a cup with his vicodin. Cuddy had also put him on blood thinners, since he was going to be relatively sedentary for a time, as well as his Miralax and ibuprofen. House had eyed the medication suspiciously, and then stared Cuddy and Wilson down before tossing all of the pills at once. Wilson was pleased when House had taken the breakfast tray with less suspicion and dug into the meal with gusto. Wilson reached for one of the slices of toast, but had his hand batted away. Cuddy picked up House's chart and began rifling through the notes from the night before. Uneventful. House had slept for nearly three hours before he'd been awakened by his team. Another two hours, and he'd been awakened again for medication and breakfast. She studied House, unsurprised by his surly response. She scribbled in his chart briefly about his medication and his meal, and set the chart down again. House had finished his meal and pushed the tray away, looking satisfied. Wilson had rolled his eyes and turned around, but when he met Cuddy's gaze he was smiling.

"Your team is waiting to meet with you." Cuddy began, and House's eyes lit up in anticipation of the case.

"I need clothes." House plucked at his gown distastefully. "And a shower."

"No shower." Cuddy said firmly. "I'm sure one of those young nurses would be happy to give you a sponge bath." She smirked at that, and House scowled.

"Give me a washcloth and basin. And get me some scrubs or something. I'm not wearing this out there." He gestured to the door, and all that lay beyond it. Cuddy and Wilson exchanged looks, and then Cuddy nodded. His requests weren't all that unreasonable, for once, and Wilson conveyed with his eyes that it would be more expeditious to accede to House's wishes than to fight him on something so senseless. House's patient was stable for the moment, but was still slowly declining. House had been delayed by his accident, and further deprived of the sleep he needed to make a snap diagnosis. Despite his bravado, she could see weariness lurking in House's eyes. He wasn't certain he could work hampered by his injuries. She wasn't certain he could either, but his patient stood a better chance if he at least tried than he did if House withdrew himself from the case. Cuddy left quietly, leaving an urgent request at the nurse's desk for a basin and washcloth and the set of scrubs he requested. Wilson lingered in House's room as the nurses brought in his basin and scrubs. House had scowled at the nurse when she asked him how he was feeling, and sniped at the one who offered to help bathe him. He'd snatched the scrubs away from her and Wilson had smothered a laugh at her stricken expression. He made a mental note to stop at the nurses' desk and apologize for House.

"Go shut the blinds." House ordered tersely. Wilson did so, sliding the door shut as well. House hurriedly divested himself of his gown and scrubbed at his face before running the washcloth over his shoulders and abdomen. Pushing the bed up as high as it could go, he swiped at his legs before throwing the washcloth to Wilson in a silent request to wipe his feet down.

Wilson complied, washing his swollen feet before drying them and sliding a set of diabetic socks on them. House wrestled himself into the scrub top, but held out the pants in a wordless plea for help. Wilson obliged, sliding the pant legs over House's casts and drawing them up to his knees. Placing both hands on House's lower legs, he held them steady while House grabbed the waist and lifted himself up on his elbows as he dragged the pants up over his boxers. He was grunting with exertion when he lay back again, and Wilson busied himself cleaning up the basin and washcloth while House recovered. Moving back to the bedside, Wilson lowered the railing and eased the bed back down a little bit. He brought the wheelchair close to the bedside and locked it, and then looked up to see House sit up slowly and ease his broken limbs over the edge of the bed. Wilson sighed, deeply, as House surveyed the wheelchair with trepidation. There wasn't a really good way to transfer him down and over without someone lifting him—something House would detest.

"Want me to get an orderly?" he asked quietly. After a long moment, House nodded and Wilson discreetly went to find one. The young man he found seemed to seriously consider Wilson's advice to remain silent regardless of whatever happened. He'd stepped into the room, introduced himself as Scott and then discreetly moved to support House's torso while Wilson took his legs. Moving in unison, they lifted House from the bed to the wheelchair in one smooth motion. Settling into the seat, House remained motionless as he struggled to get his breath back. Scott had told them he'd be around later as he'd lifted House's feet onto the wheelchair pedals, locking his broken limbs into a more comfortable position out in front of him. He'd wished them a good day and left as quietly as he'd come. House's lack of commentary meant Scott was okay, and Wilson silently promised himself that Scott was the only orderly that they'd use. Wilson stood quietly, undecided if he should take charge and push House to the elevator, but he was spared the agony of a decision when House unlocked the wheels and propelled himself to the door. Sliding it open, he rolled into the hall, with Wilson trailing behind him. The third floor was empty for the most part, and while House jabbed the up button on the elevator, Wilson paused at the nurses' desk to let them know that House was going to be off the floor, but still in the hospital. The floor nurse had been surprised, she knew House's reputation and was surprised to find that he'd been relatively compliant with her staff.

Wilson could do little more than shrug in explanation. Sometimes the only thing to do was to roll with it.

He grinned despite himself when the nurse laughed out loud. That pun would never get old.


End file.
